Writer's Journal

Last Friday, I dropped my car keys and thought I’d lost them. Realizing that something was wrong, I went looking: I eventually found them sitting on the damp asphalt by the trunk of my car and stuck them in my pocket.

Then I went about my day, typing things out, checking and double-checking research. I did my laundry, returning to work at my computer between loading and unloading the washer and drier.

But every now and then my car alarm went off. Knowing the small remote on my keychain doesn’t work properly, I assumed it must be an electrical problem. Those aren’t uncommon–the car is, in fact, eleven years old. The power locks don’t work, though thankfully the windows still do.

Needless to say, this made me feel a little upset. After all, I had just had quite a bit of work done on it not a month ago. Numerous things had gone wrong, and I ended up needing to make two trips just to make sure everything was working properly.

So every time the alarm went off, I took off my house shoes, unlaced and laced by boots, and pulled on my coat, cursing under my breath.

But without fail, every time I stepped out the front door of my apartment, the honking would stop, and I can only assume that the flashing lights did as well. No one paid it any mind, but it was horribly irritating.

The third time that this happened, I had had enough, and resolved to go down and inspect the vehicle even if it did stop. I slapped down my pockets, looking for my keys, and discovered them in my back pocket.

I had been sitting on the “panic” button the whole time, and, having parked on the opposite side of the building from my front door, every time I went out my front door, the combination of concrete walls and distance had signaled the car to stop honking.

Going to my back window, I raised up the keys and hit the “lock” button. The lights flashed. Apparently, instead of shorting out the remote, it had caused the unworking mechanism to short back into functionality.

Honestly, I didn’t know that could happen.